Red and Blue and Black all Over
by Fernandidilly-yo
Summary: It was in his eyes, blocking out the little bit of light the boy could make out through the darkness. It pulled at his hair, ripping his brown locks from his head. It's sharp claws digging into his tender flesh. It kept moving, never stopped moving.
1. Chapter 1

**I just have a lot of feels right now...And they keep hurting Peter!**

 **Warning- So possible triggers..? Maybe..?**

 **Disclaimer- Honestly I don't even have any money. I own nothing.**

* * *

 ** _Red and Blue and Black all over-_**

Peter can't get from under it. Can barely breathe as it moves over him. It's texture like silk. Soft, but yet slimy. It's mass shifting over him, rolling over his body like black waves, crashing back down on the teen's prone form.

 _Too heavy,_

 _too moist,_

 _too hot,_

 _too soft._

It's like thick molasses, it's black tentacles tracing over his bare skin. Teeth ripping at his suit, at his _flesh_. Tearing away the red and blue to reveal pale skin; and the slight pink of scares that actually made it past the teen's healing factor.

 _Touching,_

 _biting,_

 _licking,_

 _pawing,_

 _scratching._

It was too hot. Burning around his body as it pressed itself to him. It was suffocating, a crushing weight that seared his skin. Left him panting for breath, his chest heaving as he struggled beneath it. It was wrapped around his wrists and ankles, keeping him still. Pressed to the cold floor, a contrast to the immense heat above Peter.

 _Hurting,_

 _burning,_

 _choking,_

 _pressing,_

 _smoldering._

Black oily goo pooled in the teenager's mouth. Pouring itself down his throat. Cutting off his cries. _Cutting off his air…_

Can't breathe. _Please…_

 _Sticky,_

 _blackness,_

 _smooth,_

 _coppery-red,_

 _blood._

 _Help,_ he needed help...

It was in his eyes, blocking out the little bit of light the boy could make out through the darkness. It pulled at his hair, ripping his brown locks from his head. It's sharp claws digging into his tender flesh. It kept moving, _never stopped moving_.

 _Crushing,_

 _petting,_

 _caressing,_

 _breaking,_

 _griping._

Peter's lungs wouldn't fill with air, no matter how much he begged them to do so. They shuddered within his chest, his heart pounding madly against his ribcage. The teen couldn't get his jaw to shut as he longed to bite at the Monster, his mouth forced open against his will. He tried to buck upwards, telling his hips to move, to thrash about, they couldn't. Peter's limbs won't listen to him, even as he pleads for them to fight back. His voice couldn't be heard even by his own ears. Its sound smothered out by the blackness in his throat.

 _Drowning,_

 _thrashing,_

 _scorching,_

 _pleading,_

 _crying._

Peter was dying, he could feel it. He was going to suffocate, drown under this black Monster. His heartbeat was loud in his ringing ears, his stomach rolling inside of him. Peter shuddered as the Monster ran its oily hands down his chest and stomach, it's unwanted touches going to his upper thighs, making his skin tingle with disgust and pain.

 _Unwanted,_

 _vulnerable,_

 _helpless,_

 _violated,_

 _disgusted._

The teen could feel his chest heaving with silent sobs. His eyes overflowing with hot tears that were then soaked into the black skin of the Monster pressed to him. Its movements were confusing, one moment the Monster was tearing into Peter's skin, making thick blood bubble forth, the next it was petting him, its touches almost gentle.

 _Confused,_

 _dizzy,_

 _lost,_

 _hopeless,_

 _dirty._

Peter needed help, _desperately_. He wanted someone to save him. To get this thing away from him. To tell him that it would be alright. That the Monster would never touch him again. That they would _protect_ him.

 _Need of saving,_

 _damsel in distress,_

 _weakling,_

 _not good enough,_

 _just a child._

And then it happened. The Monster let out an inhuman shriek as trails of electricity coursed over its blackened body. Its tendrils withered as it pulled back from the pinned down boy.

Peter sucked in a gasping lungful of air as the blackness pulled out of his throat. His sight coming back to him as the darkness no longer covered his eyes. The Monster was still screaming, thrashing about as the electricity covered its form. It's yellowed teeth and white eyes glowing in the dark as it's body shuddered and morphed in agony.

Peter didn't care, he forced his eyes to look away. Begged his ears not to hear. Willed himself to be somewhere else, _anywhere else…_

 _Scared,_

 _cold,_

 _pain,_

 _alone,_

 _distressed._

Hands were on him once again, and the teen cried out. Backing away in a scurry of flailing limbs, his heart pounding, his ears filled with a hollow sound. It's noise drowning out everything else.

Crouched before him was Steve.

 _Well, Captain America_.

He was in his suit, his helmet covering his head. The blond's hands were placed out palms first, a sign of peace. His stance soft, his blue eyes sad. Peter could see his mouth moving, but the teen couldn't hear the words.

 _Help,_

 _please,_

 _help me,_

 _oh god,_

 _save me._

Peter was shaking, tremors coursing over his naked body. It took the teen a moment to realize he was shuddering with tears. Harsh sobs passing through his bloodied lips as they heaved out of his bruised chest.

Steve inched forward, Peter could make out snippets of what the man was saying _"be okay—want to help—you're safe—alright, Peter."_ The teen launched himself forward, pressing himself to the broad chest of Captain America, of his leader, _of Steve._

Hiccupping cries of anguish were muffled by Steve's star-spangled-suit. The teen could still hear the Monster in the background, could just make out the sounds of people yelling angry and rage-filled. Peter ignored it, pressing himself forward trying to burrow into the man. Trying to get as close as he could possibly be.

Steve was warm, but not scolding, _never burning._ His hands were on him, but they were soft, _never tearing._ The man's body was strong, but not pressing, _never hurting._ He was holding Peter, but not pinning, _never forcing._

 _Soft,_

 _secure,_

 _safe,_

 _saved,_

 _Steve._


	2. Chapter 2

**I already had this written so...Here'ya go...**

 **This is in Steve's perspective. And written in second person for some reason..? (Don't ask I don't know)**

* * *

 _ **Steve's** **pov-**_

You have lost him. The boy had gone out for his nightly patrol like he always did. Throwing on his red and blue and giving a silly little salute before jumping out the window with a flip and swinging into the night. You had watched him go.

Hadn't given it a second thought.

 _But you should have._

 _Should have made the kid put in his comm._

 _Should have asked Peter to stay in for a night._

 _Should have watched the clock more closely._

But you _didn't._

The rain helped drown out all sound, it pounded in your ears, helped make you feel numb. It was late. Later than any sane person should be awake. But you were awake, _wide awake_ , and restless. You had sent the team into pairs to search for Peter. The boy had never come home. He always came home.

 _Worried. Should be worried._

 _Helpless. Never be helpless._

 _Leader. Supposed to be their leader._

 _Protector. Peter needed to be protected._

 _Lost. Promised yourself no more soldiers lost._

Tony was getting antsy. You could hear the way his voice was higher than normal, his humor dying down as the search went on. The comms were too silent without his ramble.

Nat was stiff as she moved, her face grim her stance determined. She didn't talk, didn't give comment or make judgments. She only obeyed.

Sam was jittery. His voice hushed and fast over the comm. His flying patterns no longer graceful. The night was starting to wear on him. You could see the sorrow in his eyes.

Clint was angry. Seething in quiet anticipation as he searched almost robotically. He didn't kid around or make jokes. Barely even talked. It was unnerving.

Thor was stone. His face no longer looking of your friend's, but of a warrior; a warrior who had fought many battles and lost companions.

 _You had all lost._

 _You all knew what that felt like._

 _It left you hollow and numb._

 _It hurt like hell, made you ache._

 _You do not plan on feeling that way again._

The night was cold. But it was no colder than what you felt inside, your veins are ice, your blood freezing as it runs with adrenaline and fear. Your jaw is clenched, your voice steady, your shoulders squared, your orders not to be questioned. It seemed as if nothing is affecting you. _But it is_.

 _Too slow._

 _Too late._

 _Too complacent._

 _Too stupid._

 _Too naive._

There were signs of a battle. Scratch marks, and white webbing leaving a trail of wreckage. Splintered wood and overturned cars. Signs of a fight soon turned into ones of a struggle. Shreds of red and blue spandex left in puddles out in the night's rain.

 _Deep breath._

 _Collect your mind._

 _Think things through._

 _Never assume._

 _Keep your head on straight._

The trail led you to a collapsing apartment building on the outskirts of New York. Red brick crumbled under the pounding rain, mold and weeds growing on the old dusty walls. Choked off cries, and gurgled anguish could be heard from deep within the building.

 _Run._

 _Don't think._

 _Move._

 _No time to think._

 _Find him._

Clint shoots the syrupy substance covering Peter before you can even voice an order. Your mouth feels dry, a lump forming in your throat, your mind fuzzy. The creature withers and shrieks, its shouts scraping against your brain.

 _Too late. You were too late._

 _Violated. The creature has already violated Peter._

 _Not quick enough. You weren't fast enough._

 _He's hurt. Peter was beaten._

 _Broken promises. You didn't save him._

You force your legs forward. Make yourself push past your emotions and walk towards the shivering boy. This isn't about you. This isn't about how you feel. This is about Peter.

He isn't looking at you, his brown scared eyes are locked on the thrashing black creature, the same one that Clint is beating to the other side of the room in a fit of rage. You place a gentle hand on the teen's shoulder.

But the teen gives a choked off cry and stumbled away. His eyes are blown wide as they finally settle on you. It takes him a moment to realize who you are. You crouch down trying to look less intimidating. The monster is still screaming in the background, Tony and Natasha just arrived, they are screaming too.

 _Stay steady._

 _Stay calm._

 _Stay strong._

 _Stay collected._

 _Stay solid._

Peter is shuddering where he sits, wheezing sobs passing through his bloodied lips. He must be cold, his suit is _ruined, soiled._ You start to speak softly, murmuring soft sweet-nothings and false reassurances. But he doesn't seem to hear you, his chest still heaving to catch his breath.

 _Shock. He's in shock._

 _You have dealt with shock victims before._

 _Traumatized. He has been traumatized._

 _You have seen many people traumatized._

 _But never should that someone be this young._

The teen unexpectedly tips into you. Pressing roughly to your chest and grabbing at the fabric of your suit. His cries of anguish make something in your chest give. It's on fire, you are burning from the inside out because-

 _You didn't save him._

 _You let him down._

 _You broke your promise._

 _You didn't protect him._

 _You failed Peter._

You hold tightly to the boy, not just for him, but for you too. You don't want to let go, you almost lost him today. You let him cry into your chest, let him pull you closer. Even though you couldn't possibly be pressed further against him. You understand, you want to give him that comfort you know he desperately needs. It's the least you can do for the boy. You rub a hand over his messy brown hair, still whispering soft comforting things. You're still not sure if he hears them.

 _Peter is cold. His flesh pale and shivering._

 _Peter is bleeding. Coppery-red spilling from him._

 _Peter is still crying. You hate it when he cries._

 _Peter is so young. Just a teenager._

 _Peter is your responsibility. You don't take that lightly._

* * *

 **I hope you all liked it. I'm not sure why it's in second person...But that's what my brain said to do...So whatever.**

 **Fernandidilly-yo out. ;P**


	3. Chapter 3

**I am SO sorry that I haven't updated this sooner...ouch...almost a month...I didn't mean to wait that long, guys...*scratches back of neck* I um...me** **iz sorryz...**

 **Okay, so this goes back and forth from Peter to Steve. Peter is in third person. But Steve is in second. (Sorry if that's confusing)**

* * *

 ** _Peter's pov-_**

 _Peter insisted that he is fine._

He's not.

 _It was nothing._

It is.

 _It was no big deal._

But it was.

It had been three days…Three days since he had been saved…Three days from when the Monster had taken him…Three days without his suit…Three days of this numbness…

But Peter's fine.

He can deal with this, it's nothing.

Just a few scratches and a bruised ego.

Nothing a few days of rest won't fix.

He had spent a night in the med bay. Bruce patching him up, the others not leaving the room. It left Peter feeling exposed. He had already been emotional, and seeing the others with grief and guilt written all over their faces hadn't helped.

The teen had been a mess. But he did his best to keep everything inside. The team had already seen him break down once that night. And he wasn't going to put them through that again. They didn't need to worry. Shouldn't worry. Peter could get through this. He had been through worse.

Peter had told them that he was fine.

 _But he wasn't._

Had denied that he was having trouble.

 _But he is._

Had insisted that he was okay.

 _He was lying._

* * *

 _ **Steve's pov-**_

It had been five days since you found him…Five days of no witty remarks…Five days of Peter flinching away from touch…Five days of that sad and distant look…Five days of fake smiles…Five days of this turmoil…

Peter insists that he in fine.

You know he isn't.

He says it's no big deal.

But it is.

He has been drifting through the Tower, like a feather blowing through a breeze. Looking lost in thought and in a faraway place. You had approached him once, while he was looking out the window of the living room. The teenager had jumped, flinching harshly, and away from you.

He laughed it off.

Said that you had just surprised him.

He smiled at you before leaving.

It was fake…It was all fake.

It's 1:37am when Jarvis interrupts you and Tony's bickering. You had been telling the man to go to bed, he had been pointing out that you too were still awake, so, therefore, you are a hypocrite.

It was about Peter, Jarvis tells you.

And that's all you need to hear.

Tony's behind you.

His face, you are sure, mirrors your own.

Peter is curled up in a ball. He is a shivering, wheezing mess. He's tucked into the corner of his bedroom wall. He shakes his head frantically as you try to coax him into coming down. His eyes glimmer as he blinks down at you.

It had been a nightmare.

But really it hadn't.

Because it had happened.

You had seen it.

But Peter had lived it.

Peter slides down the wall, and then you are there and you are wrapping your arms around his heaving form. Because you don't know what else to do. Because really there is nothing else to be done.

Tony is there.

Crouched down, and looking sad.

He's petting Peter's hair.

And Peter ends up sandwiched between the two of you.

Peter falls asleep like that. But you don't dare move. You know he hasn't been sleeping. Tony has been having Jarvis keep tabs on the kid. But even if he hadn't, the dark bags under the teen's eyes, and his clumsy movements, are enough evidence to tell.

You need to do something.

Need to find a way to fix this.

To help the damage.

To rescue Peter.

* * *

 _ **Peter's pov-**_

Peter has been avoiding sleep.

The nightmares are too much.

He can't handle them right now.

He dreams of black. Hot oil trapping his body. Pinning him down. Making Peter feel helpless. Showing him that he is weak. That he is pathetic.

Every shadow morphs in Peter's brain.

Morphs into the Monster.

Peter scolds himself.

Because he knows the Monster is not here.

The Tower seems too big now. Peter's been keeping to his room. He distracts himself from reality. Watching cartoons, or reading books, maybe messing around with an experiment or two. And that works for a while, it helps in the daytime. But then night falls.

Peter hates the dark. Can't help but fear it.

It's stupid. He tells himself.

Only little kids are afraid of the dark.

He's supposed to be a superhero.

And superheroes are not afraid of the night.

* * *

 _ **Steve's pov-**_

You gather the team, you all need to talk. About Peter. Because you are all worried. All sick with worry. Something needs to change, you have to think of something because clearly, this isn't going to fix itself.

You all make a decision. One that you all know Peter probably won't like, might even fight against. But it needs to be done. And you all agree, that even though you all know that-

Peter will get through this.

That he's a tough kid.

That he's been through a lot.

You all have.

And it's only made you stronger.

Even with that in mind, the fact that Peter needs your help right now is still there. And you all will do your best to give Peter all that he requires.

* * *

 _ **Peter pov-**_

Tony, Steve, and Sam approached Peter with an idea. They would like for Peter to talk to Sam (or perhaps someone else, anyone he was comfortable with)…About what had happened…About the Monster…About Peter's feelings.

Peter had said he didn't need too.

If he talked about it, then it became real.

He wouldn't be able to put on a show anymore.

All the emotions and feelings Peter had been bottling up would spill out.

So, he said no. Said he was fine. Said he didn't want to.

But then Tony had told him it wasn't a choice. And Steve had said that he _did_ in fact need it. And Sam had assured Peter that it would help.

So here Peter was.

Sitting in Sam's living room.

Across from the man.

A cup of warm cocoa in his shaking hands.

Sam was talking softly, and he was asking little questions at first. But Peter knew he would soon dig deeper. Start asking the real questions. And that thought made Peter feel sick.

The cocoa was getting cold.

Peter's stomach was turning.

He felt so small. Too small.

His heart pounding in his chest.

And then Sam was asking about Peter's nightmares, asking him about that night. _The_ night. And then he was saying it was okay to open up. That Peter was safe, that he could say whatever he wanted. That no one else would hear about what happened between the two of them.

And Peter's walls crumbled.

The cocoa slipping from his hands.

His eyes burning.

His mouth speaking without his consent.

* * *

 **I am sorry if that chapter sucked...I feel like it sucked...But I need to give you guys something..! And I have rewritten it like three times now...And I give up...I have no idea what I am doing...Someone needs to just shoot me...goodness.**

 **So uh, tell me what you think..?**

 **~A very disappointed in self Fernandidilly-yo out...weeee.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry that I am just now updating this...I suck...I know...**

 **I went through this whole work and fixed some things up, so I feel better now. :)**

 **(Talk of triggers in this)**

 **This is all in Peter's pov.**

* * *

It's getting better.

Or at least that's what Peter hopes.

He's been talking to Sam about what happened. And it was getting easier. Being able to talk about it, that is. Opening up and addressing his fears has made Peter feel lighter in some ways.

The nightmares were still there, the shadows, the fears, it all still lingered in the back of Peter's mind. Sometimes the same emotions he had felt in those awful moments would come back with a vengeance. Leaving Peter's brain feeling murky and sticky with an uneasy feeling.

But he shoved it away.

Pushed past it.

He was stronger than this.

He was better than this.

So, Peter powered through. He took Sam's advice and he forced his mind to go blank when he felt the memories start to envelope him. He would think of better times, of happy things when those images and thoughts starting to press down on him until he couldn't breathe.

Those slimy hands.

The burning touches.

Sharp teeth.

And pointed claws.

Peter still found himself waking up with wheezing pants for breath and burning eyes in the middle of the night, his blankets tangled around his spasming legs making his heart stutter in a panic. His room a dark abyss hanging over him, the air feeling stale on his tongue, and the Tower too quiet for Peter's ears.

And those were the same nights that the teenager would seek someone out. Anyone he could find in the midst of the Tower in those early hours of the day. Just another warm body, someone to help drown out the noise of Peter's thoughts. Peter was thankful that he had people he could turn to now.

Thor with his stories and warm hugs.

Sam with his advice and kind words.

Natasha with her soft smiles and kind gestures.

Tony with his gifts and distractions.

Steve with his hair ruffles and proud smile.

Bruce with his warm tea and quiet conversation.

It helped, they all ease the pressure that Peter could feel weighing on his chest and slowly eating him alive with a sense of worry. He was getting better; it was getting easier.

It would take time and it would require effort, but it would happen. Peter had been through worse, and he had come out of those trials.

He could do this.

He would do this.

* * *

Triggers.

That's what Sam called them. It could be anything, _a wet sound, a warm touch, a glimpse of black, a press to the throat._ They were things that would bring back those feelings, those images, those emotions, that Peter had felt on that night.

 _Too heavy,_

 _too moist,_

 _too hot,_

 _too soft._

"You're okay Peter," someone was saying from above him, but Peter's mind was spinning with a sense of unwarranted panic. Hands on him, unwanted touches, and burning pressure. Blackness covering his eyes, spilling into his mouth, trapping him to the cold floor.

 _Touching,_

 _biting,_

 _licking,_

 _pawing,_

 _scratching._

"Peter, you're safe, remember you are safe."

But was he? Was he when that monster was still out there?

"He can't get to you. We have you. You're alright."

Peter couldn't breathe, he couldn't get the air into his burning lungs. He could feel it all as if it were happening all over again.

 _Hurting,_

 _burning,_

 _choking,_

 _pressing,_

 _smoldering._

The teenager could feel a hand rubbing at his back soothingly, could distantly hear his own panicked wheezing. "Peter breathe, I need you to breathe." It was Steve, Steve was someone safe, Peter was safe. "Can you do that for me?"

He wanted to.

He needed to.

He could.

He would.

He did.

* * *

"Panic attacks are a normal occurrence when someone is dealing with trauma," Sam would tell him.

Trauma; _a deeply distressing or disturbing experience._

That is what this was. And that was still something that Peter had to wrap his mind around. He was dealing with trauma, a slight form of PTSD if Sam was right. It made sense, Peter had been through so much, he was bound to snap at some point, _wasn't he?_

"It is nothing to be ashamed of," Sam would reassure.

They all had forms of it, Tony, Nat, Bruce, Steve, Clint, Sam…(Maybe not Thor, but he wasn't human so he didn't count) They all just dealt with it in different ways, and Peter's _'event'_ his _'trauma'_ was fresh, it would take some getting used too.

He would learn to cope.

He always did.

But he had help this time.

"What was it this time?" Sam asked, his voice soft and understanding.

 _What had triggered it?_

 _What had set Peter off?_

 _What had made him snap?_

"I-I'm not sure." He wasn't, one moment he was fine and functioning the next he was back in that cold building with the Monster pressed against him. His mind taking him back to that night and trapping him there.

"You were in the kitchen," Sam prompted.

It clicked in Peter's mind then, "I cut my arm," he responded. His limbs had been covered in scratches and cuts after the Monster had tried to morph their DNA. The quick but sharp pain the knife had made apparently enough to bring up those memories.

"I slipped and cut my arm, and-and I-I just went back." Peter was staring down at his shaking fists not willing to look at the man sitting in front of him. He was a failure; all he did was nick his arm and it had sent him into a full out panic attack.

One that he had not been able to get out of himself. He had needed Steve, again. He shouldn't need help, shouldn't have to have someone talk him down, shouldn't have these stupid panic attacks in the first place.

"It won't always be like that, you barely slept last night and you're on edge. Things are going to affect you differently when you are having a bad day. Things will get better Peter."

"Y-yeah." Peter willed himself to believe Sam's words.

* * *

 **I am hoping to have the next chapter up much sooner now that I have the time. Thanks for reading. And let me know what you think. ;)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Look I updated! It's only been eleventy-million years! ಠ_ಥ**

 ***Whispers into the void* I am so sorry...**

 **(Talks of Triggers and Dissociation)**

 **All from Peter's pov.**

* * *

Distraction; _a thing that prevents someone from giving full attention to something else._

Sam suggested that Peter figure out some sort of healthy outlet. Something that would take his mind off of things and help him regain control of himself when he was having a bad day.

Peter tried different things. Taking Sam's advice to heart and forcing himself to move forward. Peter was sick of being stuck in this time loop of jittery nerves and bottled up emotions. He was ready to move on.

He tried painting with Steve.

But Peter was no artist.

He tried cooking with Sam.

Peter would burn water if it were possible.

He tried Archery with Clint.

Peter was now banned from touching any bow.

He tried meditating with Bruce.

Being stuck in his head wasn't a good idea.

Peter finally figured out that he needed something that he was good at and enjoyed, but it needed to be physical as well as mental, something that would keep his mind busy and his brain focused.

That ended up being sparing with Natasha.

Peter didn't feel like he had to talk when he was with Natasha. He didn't feel obligated to fill the silence like he did with some of the others. But at the same time, if Peter did feel like talking, he felt that he could freely, with no judgment.

It was nice.

It was comforting.

It was safe.

* * *

Nights were the hardest.

 _It was stupid._

 _It was illogical._

 _It was childish._

The night held nothing different from the day. Peter knew this. He _knew_ this. The Tower did not change with the suns setting, it was all the same, Peter's floor, his room, it was all the same.

So why did he always feel so uneasy in the dark?

Peter huffed at the empty room, fed up and irritated with himself. He needed to get over this faster, it was taking too long, he should be over this by now. Shouldn't he? It had almost been a full month now, enough time has passed and now he needed to get a grip.

Peter flipped off his bedroom light, plunging his room into blackness and walked over to his bed, willing the anxiety already building in his stomach to go away.

* * *

Dissociation; _to be disconnected from reality, or to separate one's self from a situation._

The air woodshed out of Peter's lungs as he fell to the floor. The teen squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to just breathe and to think of nothing else but the beating of his heart and the pull of his lungs.

Natasha asked him if he was alright. He nodded, barely hearing her words over his own ragged breathing. He would be fine, he just needed to focus on current, and not let his mind wander away with him.

Peter had woken up in a fog today, one that left him feeling tired and drained. He was disconnected, probably due to his nightmares last night. It was part of the mind's defense mechanism, to try to pull the person away from their body in order to protect them from what might be happening in reality.

Sometimes Peter would get stuck that way, after a panic attack or possibly a bad trigger. He would drift in this in-between place where he felt detached from himself but at the same time still wanting to get away.

But other times, like right now, Peter could catch his mind before it fully floated away. Focusing on what was real, what was happening at this very moment,

The burning of his lungs.

The pounding of his heart.

The coldness of the matt against his back.

And then Natasha's hand in his own as she helped to pull him back up to his feet.

* * *

Sometimes it was unexpected, well actually that was a lie.

It was _always_ unexpected because for the most part, it was something you couldn't account for.

Triggers, they were a tricky thing.

Some you could remember getting, you could remember the moment it fried itself into your brain.

Others you have no idea how they came about, but just because you don't know _why_ it's there doesn't mean it isn't real.

Some made sense, others were dumb and didn't make sense at all. Not even to the one experiencing it in that moment.

Peter was crouched down on his bathroom floor. He didn't really know why. He had been brushing his teeth, getting ready for bed, there shouldn't have been anything to bring this bout of fear on.

But that didn't matter, because whatever had caused it had already done its damage and Peter was left gasping for breath, clutching at his chest as he forced himself not to dry heave.

He was starting to go back, he could feel it.

 _Hot oil,_

 _slick and soft,_

 _sharp teeth-_

"No!" Peter shouted at himself. He was _not_ going back, he refused, he would not allow it. He wouldn't.

"Okay, Parker." Talking out loud, didn't Sam say that talking out loud could help when on the verge of a panic attack? "You are in the Tower. You are on your floor in your bathroom."

It was weird talking to himself like that, his voice echoed off of the tiled walls and bounced back at Peter, but for some odd reason, it helped. "The tile is cold on my fingers, and the fan is loud in my ears." This was what Peter did when he was trying to reel his mind back in, saying the things out loud made him feel like a bit of a freak, though.

But that had already been established when he had woken up with super-strength and micro hairs that let him stick to walls hadn't it?

"There's water on my socks, and toothpaste in my mouth."

"The sink is dripping, and there's a shattered glass on the floor."

"I am stronger than this and I refuse to have this panic attack."

"My fears do not control me, and I will get through this just like I did when the universe has thrown things at me before."

"I am the Amazing Spider-Man, and a little PTSD is _not_ going to knock me down."

* * *

 **Edit- Hey guys, so I've decided to leave this fic be- when I started writing this I was in a bad place, and I am no longer in that place. **

**I really wanted to take this fic down- but I _hate it_ when people delete stories- so as a compromise I decided to take this off of the RH series, so this is no longer set in that AU. **

**And honestly, I don't mind this ending, Peter is slowly getting better- PTSD doesn't just go away, and some days are harder than others, but that doesn't mean we can't cope.**

 **Thank you for reading.**


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